


fear & delight

by madshelley



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian AU, Slow Burn, Smut, student/professor relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-10 09:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11688738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madshelley/pseuds/madshelley
Summary: "Bathed in moonlight and bared for all to see, right in-fucking-front of Katya like something out of her wettest and wildest dreams, was Trixie Mattel, pink-tipped nails clawing at the sofa, body undulating underneath that of someone with long, dark hair. Katya’s problem, in the (very naked) flesh."





	1. fluttering lashes, red lips, & pearly white teeth

**Author's Note:**

> my first published fic on ao3, inspired by every student/professor story i've ever read, issues in my own life i'm desperately trying to get a handle on, and Are You Good? by campholmes (bless). this is entirely self-indulgent and written during periods of Summer Madness™ so please forgive me if the update schedule is wack. 
> 
> title & chapter titles are from "Fear & Delight" by The Correspondents.

“Oh but I know you'll cause me grief

Close friends of mine are in disbelief

As they can see what's underneath

 _Fluttering lashes, red lips and pearly white teeth_ …”

* * *

 

The cats were at it again.

Katya’s precious кошечки were little hellions when hungry. Her meager apartment was thoroughly overrun by half a dozen wily Russian Blues (named Mary, Faerie, Carrie, Gerrie, etc. respectively) and she couldn’t remember if she’d fed them, having practically collapsed after grading every single last essay, article, and worksheet, answering every email and returning every call, chatting up her colleagues and the cleaning crew, before subsequently running a few late night (early morning?) errands. One could sooner find her in her office more than anywhere else these days.

_(But really, she’s been terribly busy - it was that time of the semester, and her coming home late wasn’t at all influenced by anything else, she swore)_

And regardless of whether or not they were fed, the various _crashes_ and _bangs_ from the living room were a call for intervention, lest another trinket or bauble from her family back home fall victim to their _hangry_ tirade. She loved each identical cat with all her heart, but desperately wished that it wasn’t at the expense of her mother’s chachkies. Half of them were grotesque with hot-glued joints and imperfect seams - something could only be mended a handful of times until it was entirely changed and not worth the effort.

Katya rolled over with a groan, _2:40 a.m._ mocking her in garish, red light. If she closed her eyes now and managed to conk out, she’d get 4 hours of sleep before needing to be up for a light workout, toast, and assloads of coffee. She was expecting a business call in the late morning, and there was a class to teach in the afternoon. Maybe if she abandoned yoga-

A cry jolted her upright.

_So much for sleep._

Katya yanked at the bedside lamp, bathing the room in copper, and fell from the warm confines of her covers, catching herself on the nightstand to keep from falling face-first into hardwood floor, hap-hazardously throwing on a dressing robe and stopping in front of the mirror to be met with a jaded, ghoulish reflection. For her students sake, yoga had to be sacrificed.  

Another noise spurred her into action, tying back her graying hair with a scrunchie and padding down the hallway towards the unwelcome brouhaha. She should use this as an excuse for a smoke break; her own midnight feast, if you will. Not that an excuse was needed, she was entirely off the wagon; she probably stunk from the half a pack she’d blazed through when she got home, done in an effort to calm down and _woman-up_ when it was clear she’d have to go inside eventually. She’d side-eyed the window for almost an hour, sure that she’d be there alone. It was absolutely ridiculous. In the end, the rent was way too goddamn high for her to mill about when she could be enjoying her own bed. Her home was her home, first and foremost, and she was a grown-ass adult. The situation was entirely under control.

If under control meant avoiding the problem and her responsibility in it at all costs, acting as if she hadn’t literally invited her problem in, continuously excused them, cooked them dinner, gave them her spare key, and remained awake all hours of the night for any hint of their goings-on; as if she wasn’t acutely aware of what was happening. Katya scoffed. Her mind was a stove of a million burners, a million little problems boiling over ad infinitum, so she was _always aware of everything forever and screaming internally._

She was exhausted of this game, this push-and-pull of limits and boundaries and sanity, but life wouldn’t have it any other way. It had to be played. Katya couldn’t afford to entertain living in lies, scrambling to make real what was essentially fantasy, putting her 50-some-odd years of life in jeopardy over _one little problem_. She was too old to be this indulgent, and she was the one who needed to end it once and for all. 

( _But mother, why the wait? Why did it hurt so much?_ )

Finally rounding the corner to the main room, ready to greet whatever furry devil wanted her attention, Katya froze.

It wasn’t the damn cats.

Bathed in moonlight and bared for all to see, right in-fucking-front of Katya like something out of her wettest and wildest dreams, was Trixie Mattel, pink-tipped nails clawing at the sofa, body undulating underneath that of someone with long, dark hair. Katya’s _problem_ , in the (very naked) flesh.

The pair were hungrily, ardently lost in each other, a tangle of limbs and smeared makeup, the room alive in their kisses, their movements, their breathing. Telltale articles of pink clothing were strewn about, lost in the whirlwind of their earlier entrance - boots hastily kicked off near the door, a dress bunched up on the rug, stockings on the coffee table, and a lacy thong, the cherry on top, hanging from the lampshade.

This was actually happening. Katya had put up with a lot in this past week, but it wasn’t anything like _this_ , this drastic, this close, this _hot_ -

_She needed to bail. Now._

Trixie had been warned numerous goddamn times. Katya should be furious, fucking livid, foaming at the mouth and spitting fire that Trixie had the gall to do this in Katya’s home after _everything_ they’d talked about, and every fibre of her being was screaming for her to run, to yell, to literally do anything other than stand there like a pervert, but all she could do was gape like a sexually repressed doe in headlights, her vision hot and watery, her pussy absolutely _throbbing_ . White knuckles clutching the wall like a lifeline, she’d never experienced _need_ like this.

Trixie moaned, echoing what must have initially _roused_ Katya from sleep, and pleasure flooded her body, heat pooling heavy in her gut. _боже мой…_ she’d never forget the sound as long as she lived, she was sure.

The stranger atop Trixie, all sinewy limbs and calculated grace, broke their kiss and crawled down Trixie’s body, revealing more and more to Katya’s gaze - like Venus emerging from the sea, she was utterly _gorgeous_ ; body like a pin-up, platinum blonde hair askew and cascading in waves down the side of the couch, plump pink lips parted as she panted.

Katya would trade her firstborn child to be the one on top of her right now.

She wanted to trace Trixie’s pulse-point with her teeth, feel her heavy breasts in the palms of her hands, and swallow every last sound that could be wrung out of her; she would sell her soul to tongue Trixie’s pretty pink nipples, hoist her thick thighs over her shoulders or wrap them around her head, make her cum screaming Katya’s name and then ride her face to shut her up.

The wall kept her upright and mostly hidden from view, and leaning hard against it, Katya pulled her robe open and worked a hand into her shorts, fingers gliding along her pussy, pleasure radiating down her legs. She was _so fucking wet_ , god, she couldn’t remember the last time she was this wet; she could almost hear it. Katya rubbed her clit in sloppy circles, biting her lip to keep from crying out.

The stranger finally, _finally_ sat back all the way, resting on their haunches, and took a moment to admire the view from in between Trixie’s legs. They traced the stretch marks on her hips, black nails gliding down, down, to caress the skin of her abdomen, lingering there as the muscles twitched and jumped under their touch. With a whine, Trixie tilted her hips up, but they only laughed and continued to play along the goosebumps rising in her flesh, moving down her thighs, pointedly ignoring where Trixie wanted them to go.

Trixie tried to swing a leg up - to kick them into action or get away from their hand, Katya didn’t know - but the stranger caught it with a smirk, pulling it over their shoulder and sliding her entire body closer. At long last, they leaned down ever so slowly, teasingly, to kiss Trixie’s bare pussy.

“Oh, god-!”

It was the first comprehensible thing Katya heard all night. Trixie pushed herself up onto her elbows, watching as her partner took her clit into their mouth, and swiveled her hips ever so slightly to the motion of their tongue. Her free hand grasped at their hair - it had to be pretty hard, and they retaliated by speeding up, going to fucking town and shoving two fingers into her dripping pussy - _fuck_ , Katya heard it.

Trixie wailed, legs shaking, and Katya nearly moaned with her, slipping a couple fingers inside herself, slickness dripping down her thighs. Blood was oozing from her lip now, but she was captivated by Trixie’s partner thrusting their hand in tandem with their mouth, working some type of pussy-eating devil magic, causing Trixie to whimper and jostle with every thrust, the picture of a little death.

“Just like that! Fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop-”

She was so needy; Katya would be kissing her into a stupor, shutting up her brat mouth, giving her three fingers of one hand, curling them against her g-spot, and using the other to toy with her asshole or fondle her breasts. She’d get faster and faster, not stopping until Trixie was pushing her away, oversensitive, begging - maybe Katya could even get her to gush all over her hand.

Her pussy was tightening, pressure building at the base of her spine, fuck, she was gonna come; she was gonna fucking come watching her favorite student getting eaten out on her couch. This would be the end of her career if anyone found out, if they caught her right now (it would be so easy, and the thought terrified and thrilled her in equal measure). Katya was _living_ , and before her orgasm, before her entire world could fall apart with just a glance, Katya Zamolodchikova wanted to see Trixie Mattel come _hard_.

It was soon. Trixie had to be close, right where Katya was, it was in her voice, fuck, Katya went faster over her clit and opened her eyes (when had they closed?) and begged them to focus, searching for Trixie’s face through the haze, staving off her climax as _Trixie looked right at her_.

Katya’s hand was out of her shorts in a blink, stunned in a flash-bang of sheer terror.

 _She saw her._ She was looking right at her, she had to be, cutting through the shadows and leaving Katya exposed. Even as she was being devoured and finger-fucked to heaven and back, Trixie held her gaze, and the weight of it sent a shiver up Katya’s spine. Her body ached for release, but panic kept her rooted to the spot. Of all the ways for this to happen, whatever _this_ was, of course it was how Katya fell hook, line, and sinker. There was no avoiding this now. Trixie had successfully called her bluff and Katya couldn’t hide anymore.

 _Я пью за разоренный дом_.

And the triumphant smile on Trixie’s face confirmed it. With bated breath and trembling limbs, Katya watched as she tensed, fell back against the sofa-

“ _Katya_ !  Oh, fuck, _Katya-_ !” _And called out her fucking name as she climaxed._

Her partner didn’t stop, unperturbed, their moan lost against Trixie’s cunt as they worked her through her orgasm. She gasped desperately, voice strangled, body visibly jolting with aftershocks, and Katya was on the verge of passing out.

She couldn’t take it anymore - Katya turned and hurried back to her room before she could register what she was doing, slamming the door behind her. She tore away her ruined clothing and threw herself onto the bed, shame spotting high on her cheeks as she ground desperately against her hand, muffling her cries into her pillow. All she could hear was Trixie’s voice, over and over, Katya’s name never sounding so sweet; helpless, she only needed a few, rapid moments and then she was coming, lashes fluttering and pleasure drowning out the world around her.

The apartment fell back into silence afterwards. She laid there, sobered and staring blankly at the wall, nausea and dread winding tight in her chest as the realization of what’s happened grew heavy. Sleep was out of the question, and the slick between her legs was growing cold.

How the fuck was she going to handle this?

Mechanically, she sat up and wrapped a blanket around herself. Her lip was still crusted in blood. She was okay, until she suddenly wasn’t, and then she was crying. She couldn’t hear anything coming from the living room and she prayed that Trixie would stay away and give her time to breathe - they needed to talk, but Katya didn’t trust herself to say the right things in that moment, and she cried harder, wiping away the tears that fell down her cheeks.

She felt stupid, but she wished things were different, simpler. She wished she was strong enough to just get over her feelings, and she wished the world wasn’t stacked against them; she wished she wasn’t _this way_.

Because in the end, no matter how much it hurt, Katya knew what had to be done.

_до свидания, Trixie._


	2. I don't show it but I quiver whenever you come near

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don't show it but I quiver whenever you come near  
> And I cannot decipher between the thrill and the fear  
> I want to stop it but I like it too much to let it stop here”

_Pearl: you’ll love her_

_Pearl: i mean yeah she’ll fucking kick your ass if you slack off, so don’t fucking slack off._

Trixie’s fingernails clicked against the screen of her phone.

_Trixie: stfu_

_Trixie: bitch, i passed all my classes last semester ?? remember ???_

_Trixie: anyway, i know, kim told me when she was taking her art course_

She set it on the table in front of her, adjusting her hunched posture, trying to quell her anxiety over the Official Beginning of Fall Semester.

Her junior year had started rather unceremoniously with a morning pre-req of behavioral science, followed by a solitary lunch composed of only Red Bull and restlessness (which the former did _not_ help with, but when had Red Bull ever made a situation _better_?). She’d left the cafe earlier than intended, trying to be punctual (at least on the first day of class) only to find herself alone in the dimly lit classroom, putzing on her phone, waiting for the other students taking A 312 to trickle in.

Not that it fucking mattered - she knew from the get-go she’d be alone and _abandoned_ in this course. She’d saved her Art minor requirements for the latter half of her college career, while her fellow Theater major + Art minor friends had taken theirs early on, _which was fine, it was fine._ She’d survive. Maybe. Attending a small, liberal arts, all-women’s Catholic college had it’s ups and downs, but she could stand on her own two feet now.

( _Oh honey, ups and downs, honey, talk about my mental health, honey._ )

The course-load didn’t faze her. After several years of rocky attendance and meager academic success, she’d grown into the student she’d always envisioned at 3 a.m., usually while desperately bullshitting a last minute essay worth half her grade. Gone were the days of pathetic, pleading emails begging for extensions and apologizing for excuses. No more threats to be kicked off courses or tearful confessions; no, she was here to fucking achieve something.

Not to mention she lost 30 lbs last semester from a winning combo of academic stress and taking all the hours she could get at her abysmal retail job. She’d never felt so gorgeous, so worthy of her blossoming success. Confidence came in the form of finally fitting into the clothes of her dreams, mastering the perfect contour; she knew she was the Malibu Barbie lesbian fantasy of her year.

She was practically a new woman.

No, what really made her palms sweat wasn’t the work, it was Professor Zamo. Infinitely challenging, delightfully strange, a horrid bitch, a nonsensical freak, a matron, a monster, charismatic, coldhearted - Trixie heard it all, from horror stories to love-struck ballads, all for the enigmatic Arts & Design professor (who also taught Russian?? And philosophy? Somehow?). The polarity did nothing to calm Trixie’s nerves. She didn’t know what to expect, but if she was honest, she’d admit that deep down, deep deep Timmy stuck in a well down, she actually hoped Professor Zamo ended up liking her.

Because they’d be seeing each other 3 times a week until December, and it’d be a real bitch and a half if she had to put up with another bitter instructor.

Her phone buzzed on the table, a picture of Dolly Parton lighting up behind several new messages.

_Pearl: kim said she’s excited for you two to meet_

_Pearl: you’ll get a total heart-on_

_Pearl: don’t fuck it up (:_

She snorted.

_Trixie: thanks asshole, here’s hoping_

Eventually, more and more people filled the empty seats around her. There were vague acquaintances, some faces she recognized, but nobody she really wanted to sit near or get to know. She kept to her phone, glancing up to make awkward eye contact and a forced smile here and there, before giving up entirely and twirling a lock of hair, smacking her gum and blowing big pink bubbles, staring at the clock. Class started in 5 minutes, and Professor Zamo was nowhere to be found.

_Trixie: is she usually late to class_

_Trixie: bc if so, thanks for telling me, i could’ve left later_

She locked her phone and huffed quietly, making a mental note to spend more time at lunch next week. Preferably eating this time.

“Здравствуйте!”

And then Professor Zamo was walking into the room, dropping all of her materials on the desk with a wicked grin, and Trixie was immediately lost in her ruby lips and white teeth.

“Меня зовут Екатерина Петро́вна Замоло́дчикова.”

She was a portrait in red: a poppy behind her ear, thick red glasses tangled in grey hair that cascaded down her flowing red dress. It was really pretty, Trixie would admit that, but also almost physically painful to look at for too long, and she had to stare at the wall and blink several times to clear her eyes.

With that, the class was unresponsive to her greeting; a sea of confused faces, Trixie’s included. She couldn’t have mixed up her classes, right?

Professor Zamo cackled. “Вы говорите по-русски...?”

Trixie raised her eyebrows and blew another bubble, the following _pop_ breaking the uncomfortable silence.

There was another pause; Professor Zamo’s energy was sucked out of her all at once, broad shoulders deflating, and her heels clicked against the tile flooring as she took a step back and tilted her head slightly, eyes scrunched in thought. Her cheekbones were even more prominent from the overhead light, and Trixie swore they could cut glass.

“Oh, fuck me,” Zamo murmured, her voice still tinged with her accent. “This is my art class, isn’t it?”

Trixie nodded, a few others joining her, a couple people affirming “yeah” in an exasperated tone.

“Right!” She clapped her hands together, right back into good spirits.

A jerk of her head brought her glasses down onto her face, and she pulled a fat, ancient notebook from the pile of materials on the desk, flipping through several pages and yanking a pen from God know’s where in the pandemonium atop her head. She then furiously scribbled something before continuing.

“So, what I said in my _родной язык_ was that I am Professor Zamolodchikova, and what I was going to say, is that you can call me Professor Zamo, or just Zamo, since my poor американский students never seem to get the whole thing right.” She smiled, all teeth, glancing around the room.

“This is A 312, and _not_ RLC 375, so if you’re in the wrong place or you aren’t on my roster, feel free to get out. We’ll only point and laugh at your public humiliation.”

Trixie laughed at that, and Professor Zamo sat down on the table, her dress riding up to reveal her legs in black stockings. Trixie totally _didn’t_ admire her calves, she absolutely did not.

God, she was so fucking gay; could she ever turn it off? How old was Professor Zamo, even? 30? 60? 95? The hair and the crow’s feet and the laugh lines were throwing her off, as well as her weathered and very obvious smoker’s voice. There was a difference between a cougar and crypt-keeper, and while Trixie was all for appreciating an older woman to spite the oppressive heteropatriarchy that beset them all, her friends would never let her live it down. _Dial it back, tomb-robber._

“Trixie Mattel!”

She raised her hand on instinct and her cheeks burned. Hopefully, it was hidden underneath the 5 lbs of makeup she caked on this morning, as Professor Zamo was looking right at her for the first time, taking her in. And she was always a lot to take in.

“Why does your name sound familiar?” Zamo asked, penciling in Trixie’s attendance. “Have we met before?”

Trixie shrugged lightly. “You tell me.” Had her friends talked about her?

Professor Zamo laughed.

“Maybe we were lovers in another life.”

With that unnervingly casual remark, she continued down her list, yelling out various name and leaving Trixie gazing into the void of the wall, throat dry, Fucked Up™ until class finally fucking began in earnest.

 

* * *

 

 _Kim:_ _♪_ _zamo & trixie sitting in a tree _ _♫_

_Kim: f-u-c-k-i-n-g_

_Trixie: do you wanna f-u-c-k-i-n-g stop lmfao_

So, yeah, she’d fallen in love with the class - the assignments were engaging and never unnecessary busy work, the conversation always left her in stitches, and she received glowing feedback on all of her work so far. For the first time in what felt like forever, Trixie _wanted_ to go to class. She’d never really given any thought to her artistic ability, and A 312 was turning out to be the perfect place to hone her unique vision.

And yeah, so maybe she’d taken to Professor Zamo a little more than expected. Maybe talking with her was sometimes the best part of Trixie’s day - maybe she did everything she asked, and then some. She’d never been a teacher’s pet ( _oh my god, don’t think about that),_ but being at Zamo’s (academic!) beck and call wasn’t bad. She liked to help out those who inspired her.

It wasn’t her fault they worked so well together. Her desert dry, Midwestern humor paired beautifully with Zamo’s _batshit wild brain_ \- it was an instant connection, a natural spark. Not even a month in and they had the rapport of old friends.

“Tallulah,” Trixie looked up to see Zamo standing right next to her. “Put the phone away before death becomes you.”

She tapped on Trixie’s drawing pad for emphasis, and Trixie tucked her cell away in her dress pocket, exaggerating a smile and picking up her pen. Zamo snorted, and poked at her arm as she continued to lap around the room, a raised hand in the opposite corner needing her attention.

Trixie’s phone vibrated against her thigh. She itched to check it, but ultimately went back to her sketches.

Sometimes Trixie couldn’t believe how happy this course made her. She could honestly sit and listen to Zamo talk for hours - and the stories she had! From growing up in Soviet Russia, to getting high in college, to escaping a hit man, to eating dinner with various big names in the world - Trixie sat through each of them with rapt attention, mouth agape, silently screaming and wondering _what the actual fuck was her life?_

Why had she waited so long to take Zamo’s classes?

Eventually, the period ended and they were released for the evening. Trixie packed away all of her supplies in her pink roller laptop bag and took a moment to finally pull out her phone and answer some messages. Her mom needed errands to be done ( _shocker_ ), Kim was still harassing her ( _even bigger shocker_ ), and her Theater professor was reminding everyone in the department of their upcoming showcase.

She read the latter even as she stood up and made to leave, her bag knocking against easels and chairs behind her.

“Where were you last week?”

Halfway out the door, Trixie glanced back - Zamo was with another student, someone who’d worked right next to Trixie a few weeks ago and hadn’t been seen since. They’d been chipper and decent to work with, and returned this week exactly the same. Trixie leant against the doorframe.

The student - Trixie couldn’t remember their name - fiddled with their hands, head down. “I meant to email you-”

Zamo interrupted. “And you had a whole week to do so.”

“Yeah, I know - I just-”

“And the syllabus for this class requires you to email me either before or within 24 hours after class if you’re absent. You also haven’t turned in today’s work.”

Trixie shuddered at her tone.

“I know, it’s all finished, I just have to-”

“I thought you’d dropped the course,” Zamo continued. “Can I count on you to do the work required to be successful moving forward?”

The student sputtered and offered weak excuses, conclusively promising to send her all the work by the end of the week, Zamo accepting with an unspoken _or else_.

Trixie’s gut wanted to drop out of her body. She knew _precisely_ how her classmate felt in that moment: almost neurotic in humiliation, edging on tears, willing to do anything to stay in the class despite deserving to be dropped, and Zamo wasn’t pulling any punches. The other professors would always send the news in an apathetic email or yell outside the classroom for all to hear, and yelling never rattled Trixie, growing up in her family had numbed her to it, so that never vexed her. Something about Professor Zamo’s stern and genuinely disappointed words however, had her vicariously shaken.

The student hastily grabbed their things and skittered away, most likely to hide in the dorms and lick their wounds. Trixie had regularly taken to lazing in her own anguish; her own _woe is me_ pity party with an open bar, contemplating why she even tried, what even mattered, where was she even going with her life? And then her mother would scream and-

“Did you need something, Tracy?” Zamo was next to her turning off the lights, smiling, bag over her shoulder.

 _She wasn’t talking to you, crazy - remember?_ How long had she been standing there like an idiot?

“No,” She croaked and then cleared her throat. “No, I got caught up in emails.”

Trixie offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, gesturing to her phone. Professor Zamo stood there for a second, nodding, and then put a hand on Trixie’s arm to guide her out of the way. She shut the door behind them, locking it with a key from the lanyard around her neck. Trixie blushed and apologized. The hallway was deserted, the rest of the classrooms already empty, all of the day-time classes finished for dinner.

Zamo adjusted her glasses and looked at Trixie again before asking, “Are you okay?”

_Did she really look that worked up?_

“Yeah, I’m fine - I just, I was thinking about shittier times. It’s nothing.”

Letting out a light “ah”, Zamo nodded, glancing away from Trixie to seemingly lose herself in thought. Trixie saw her do the same in class sometimes, maybe when she thought nobody was looking; eyes glazed over, motionless, held to whatever strange or miraculous thing her bag-of-cats mind evoked. Often, she’d come back with the ghost of a smirk, or she’d _giggle_ , but sometimes she’d close her eyes, take a deep breath, and solemnly resurface.

“We should go get a drink,” Zamo suggested. “We could talk about it, and I could teach you some things to help.”

Trixie snorted. “Oh god, is this where I agree and then you turn out to be a serial killer? Are you like the Elizabeth Bathory of our college?”

Zamo burst into a flurry of shaking arms and raucous laughter, echoing down the hallway.

“Is being a professor just a ploy to get the blood of your students?” Trixie continued, trying not to laugh. “Do you sit in your clawfoot tub, soaking in blood, and remind yourself of the good ol’ days when you could steal peasants from the local village?”

“Yeah!” Zamo wheezed. “I haven’t done it in a while so my skin’s a little loose, and I’ve chosen you since you always sit in front of class so pretty in pink.”

She pulled at Trixie’s bomber jacket and stroked her cheek, and Trixie shrieked, having to turn around and take several steps, laughing all the while.

“But no, I’m serious,” Zamo composed herself, and Trixie turned back, and watched her hand tuck some of her hair behind her ear. “I’d be delighted to take a crack at your brain.”

“I think it’s _pick your brain_.”

“Pick your brain, then. Отвали.”

Trixie hesitated. Was this - was this _a thing_ ? Were her sapphic senses tingling? Rational thought said _no_ ; it was all wish-fulfillment, 100% projection, as she was wont to do. She’d hate to ruin a friendship over her being weird and unable to distinguish romantic and platonic feelings. And she was several months shy of being legally allowed to drink, anyhow.

“I don’t think you want to risk a felony charge for me.” Trixie said eventually.

Zamo eyebrows shot up.

“I’m only 20.” Trixie clarified.

 _How off-putting_.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I wish I were.”

Zamo was laughing again, this time reaching out to clutch her arm. “I have a cat that’s older than you. You’re like an infant.”

_Of course Zamo had a cat. In what way did she not scream crazy cat lady._

“We could go get a coffee?” Trixie offered instead. She typically refueled around this time anyway, either for a shift or late night homework.

“That works too.”

 

* * *

 

 While the overpriced and underwhelming coffee of their college was oh so tempting, they opted to meet at a lakefront coffeehouse instead. It was new to Trixie, having seen the building only in passing, but Zamo was insistent as they two walked side-by-side to the parking structure. She’d given Zamo her phone to punch the address into without a thought, and for a hot minute she’d never felt panic like that before, praying Kim and Pearl left her alone long enough for this new friendship to actually go somewhere.

The place was almost comically cinematic in its atmosphere: freshly fallen leaves scattered in the lingering summer air, dusk looming on the watery horizon with downtown a murmur in the backdrop, the usual city roar setting alongside the sun. Trixie texted her mom a quick excuse for her absence and excited her car, bumping the door shut with her hip, taking it all in as she walked towards the entrance.

Several high arched windows on the aged, brick building gave her a glimpse into the modernized interior. The paths parallel to the lake were dotted with runners, couples hand-in-hand, cyclists; the traffic was dying down, but it was comfortably busy for a weekday evening.

And the smell, _oh the smell_ . Trixie swooned at the emanating promise of _some fucking good coffee_.

She didn’t have to travel far; right there on the patio, beneath the lantern-adorned pergolas and twinkling string lights, was Professor Zamo, two generous mugs already on the table.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Trixie said in lieu of a greeting, slinging her purse over the back of her chair and plopping down.

They’d given each other an hour’s time to arrive, and Zamo must have gone home and changed. She was barefaced, something Trixie never saw in class, her gray mane in a loose bun, her trendy glasses switched out for some thick black ones that matched the grandpa sweater swallowing up her more petite body. The absurdity had been turned down several notches, and Trixie wondered if this was how she dressed at home.

Zamo smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “I wanted to. Oh, and-”

She fished into her bag beside her, and then placed a handful of sugar and cream packets in front of Trixie.

“I wasn’t sure how you took it.”

Trixie swallowed hard. Zamo sipped her coffee, unaware, and Trixie immediately began ripping open several packets and dumping them in one by one, trying to rein it in yet again. A stirring stick was in her drink when she looked up, Zamo grinning at her fondly.

“You take yours black, then?” Trixie asked.

Zamo nodded. “Now you know what to bring me if you ever end up like your poor friend.”

Yeah, fuck no. After her terrifying assblast from the past, Trixie vowed to never be _that student_ to Zamo. Handling her disappointment would be viscerally excruciating, and Trixie wouldn’t be able to cope.

“Trixie,” Zamo’s odd, Americanized accent slipped up for a moment; she coughed and spoke normally. “Please come to me if you ever need help. I do not want you to fail like she will.”

“Yeah, of course. I was actually thinking about how much you’d hate me if you met me even a year ago - I was a nightmare student. Barely turned anything in on time, spent all my sick days and begged for more. You’d of beat me up.”

“No, I wouldn’t have.”

Trixie stared at her over her mug.

“Nevermind, you’re right,” Zamo chuckled. “I don’t like passive students. You have to be an active participant in your own education, otherwise what’s the point?”

“And that’s totally how I am now. Like, I’m paying _how much_ to fail _another_ class?”

“What was wrong, to fail so many?”

 _And there it was, not even 10 minutes in and straight to the heavy stuff_. Trixie rested her hands on the table.

“I wasn’t in the best place, mentally. I had a lot of anger, and crippling social anxiety, and I’d been depressed for a while. I ended up in a hospital at some point, it’s kind of a blur.” She laughed, as she knew usually when to laugh, to lighten the mood.

Zamo gave a small smile of encouragement, putting her coffee down.

“It’s a long story,” Trixie sighed, backtracking - right now wasn’t the best time for this. “I’m sure you’ll hear it one day. It’s what was tripping me up earlier, before we left. Bad memories. I’m new to this whole ‘functioning human being’ thing.”

Shame was bristling along Trixie’s back, making her skin itch, a venomous sense of _wrong_ turning her stomach, setting her brain on fire. She usually reserved this sort of rumination for after a social interaction - was this too far? They’d only just met, and in the grand scheme of things, Zamo was a complete stranger to her, who knew what she’d do with the information, how differently she’d be treated.

But then Zamo’s hand was on her own; her skin was warm, smooth, gently opening Trixie’s clenched fist to properly grasp at her fingers, and she was taken aback by the emotion in Zamo’s eyes. She was used to awkwardness, the inelegance of a pat on the back or a sad smile that made her feel pathetic, but Zamo looked at her, and _saw her_.

“My trick is to pull myself back to the present,” Zamo said at length. “To remind myself that nothing in the past matters - it can't matter, because I can’t change it. All I can do is try to be better.”

She went on, “And all those thoughts - let them pass. They can’t be helped, I know, but you can acknowledge them, and tell them to _shut the fuck up_.”

“I know you’re young,” Zamo’s thumb rubbed gently against the side of her hand. “But know you aren’t alone in this. Believe me, Trixie, I am well acquainted with the 12 demons that buzz around in my head. You just have to take it as it comes, and maybe take some Prozac, or pick up a nasty habit or two to cope, but you’ll get there. You sound like you’ve come a long way already. And my office is always open if you need me.”

Zamo let go of her to drink more of her coffee, and Trixie mourned the loss despite sweating in her seat, unsure of what to respond with when a million and one things were begging to be said. _What happened to you? Why are you so amazing? How have you survived this long? Are we friends? Do *you* need anything?_

“Thank you, Professor Zamo.” She said simply, with as much gratitude as she could convey.

“Of course,” Zamo smiled in return. “And please, you can call me Katya.”

 

* * *

 

 Trixie idled along the lakeshore, the sky alight in billions of stars, constellations, galaxies; divinations of her past, her present, her future - a messy kaleidoscope of destiny and oil paints that muddied as she slid her hands along the space between herself and the universe.

The sand was pearly and alkaline, the soft waves of the lake lapping at her ankles, the water blue and clear and kind. What did worries matter when she had a place like this?

“Trixie.”

She turned, and a figure was advancing towards her, reaching her hand out, gasping, and then Katya was there, caressing her face, her calloused thumb rubbing the skin of her cheek, lifting her chin to look into her eyes.

Trixie pulled herself to her, wrapping her arms around her body and burying her face into the crook of her neck, the beat of Katya’s heart resonating in Trixie’s ear.

“You’re not real.” Trixie lamented, tears blurring her vision. “None of this is real.”

Katya ran her hands through Trixie’s hair, weaving it between her fingers, moving down, down her back, her touch like fire.

“I’m so lost. I’m cut off, alone.”

“But you’re not alone.”

And then Katya’s hands were tilting her face up, wiping away Trixie’s tears as she pressed her lips to hers for a moment; they both pulled back, stunned, the space between them shared in breath. Panting, Trixie’s knees weakened, but she kissed her again, and again, sliding her tongue along Katya’s lips as she longed to do in reality, moaning as Katya’s hand cupped her breast through her negligee.

They fell back against the sand, mingling in seaweed red and brown.

 

* * *

 

Trixie woke to her mother’s voice.

Her bedroom was dark and still, the silence disturbed only by muffled words from the hallway.

Everything around her was wet in every sense of the word: every inch of her skin slicked in cold sweat, the crotch of her panties soaked through with slick down her thighs, the tangled bedding below having absorbed both and congealed to her person.  

It didn’t really hit her until after she’d extracted herself from the bed, peeled off her nightgown, and was under the spray of the shower, hair wet down her back, that _oh god she had a crush on her professor._

 

**Author's Note:**

> bonus points if you know the russian i painstakingly copied + pasted from google. 
> 
> if you wanna yell i'm mad-shelley on tumblr (:


End file.
